Ordinary
by Reno Spiegel
Summary: The other ending to the series. Two friends. One restaurant. No turning back.


1Part of me saw it coming.

I'm in the old restaurant with Harry MacDowel, while logic and vengeance say he shouldn't be anywhere right now. He's trying to talk to me, but all I hear is the repeated cocking and uncocking of guns outside, where the Millennion army waits for the word.

Talk about death knocking at the door.

Heh. . .again.

**Ordinary**

It's amazing, really, that I came to be here. I died at this man's hand, was resurrected by a turncoat to his dynasty, killed his best four men, and here we are, trying not to let each other die. It strikes me that this was the way it was meant to be, though – we always did have a strange relationship.

"Brandon. . ."

He's holding his stomach, trying to tell me this imperative information before he dies, and I can't even focus because I'm not sure whether or not I should hate him. Even so, I've got my gun in my hand, and he's got his.

I glance over at him; it's the least I can do.

He laughs gently, the laugh of someone who's trying to repent in the face of the great beyond. "C'mere, Brandon. Sit next to your old friend. Have a drink. It's bourbon." I'd accuse him of being delirious because of his repetition, but I've been seeing people for half an hour now – I've even seen us as younger men a couple of times.

I slide from the barstool and sit next to him, staring at the ground. Whether we like it or not, there's blood on the floor, and for once, it _is _ours.

Abruptly I feel a tug on my gun, then a stiff jerk – all of a sudden, he's got it pointed at his forehead and there are tears in his eyes. "Harry," I murmur.

"Brandon, please," he says, and there's desperation there. "Either way, I'm not going to leave here alive."

I remember the legion of mafioso outside, and I know he's never been more right in his life. Still, the fact remains that I promised I would never kill my best friend, neither then nor now. My memory comes in bursts, but a few things have been splayed across all of it, and that's one of them.

His hand's shaking. I can't tell if he's scared or not, but for a moment I'm back at the beach, with Bear and Sid. . . Bear's utter helplessness ( I could see it in the way he stood, the way he cringed when I pulled the trigger ). And there was Sid, shivering, weeping, trying not to all-out sob. Had I not been so loyal to Millennion, I would have given him the money in my pocket and sent him on his way.

And then. . .the anguished cry. "Eddie!" After that. . .after the gunshot. . .

Nothing.

"Brandon, help me," Harry cries. "I don't want them to do it, not now, not ever. I'm already pissed off enough that the sons of bitches shot me," he half-laughs, half-spits. "Hah." He looks up, eyes pleading, my gun still to his forehead. I feel too powerless to move it.

I'm shaking my head. "Harry," I say again, but I have nothing to add onto it.

"Which is better, Brandon!" he shouts. "To let you, Brandon Heat, my friend, kill me here, now, or walk outside and let those _bastards _do it because someone asked them to! Because they have an order to do it, Brandon. It's cold, it's heartless, and it's a pitiable death."

I can't tell if he's trying to rile me up, because he knows I used to be the one killing people that way, or if he's just trying to get it off his chest. Either way, I'm not budging. I shake my head, resolved this time, and look him in the face. "I'm not doing it, Harry. I promised myself a long time ago that I would ne –"

His demeanor changes. He's suddenly rigid, agitated, and _his_ barrel's against _my _forehead, though my own gun doesn't move. "I'll pull the trigger, Brandon," he tells me. There's no regret in his voice. "I've done it before. And you're not the only one I did it to."

For a second he's Bloody Harry again, but a second is all it takes. My memory comes back to me and I return to necralized Grave, back from the dead with only one mission in mind:

Kill Bloody Harry MacDowel.

Because he killed me. And Maria. . .Doctor Tokioka, Mister Tokioka. Countless others. I feel like he killed Bob Poundmax, and Balladbird Lee, and Bunji Kugashira, and Bear Walken. Executives, friends, family, Gary, Mister Widge, Big Daddy's real successor – god dammit, I can't remember his name –

. . .Big Daddy. . .

Harry, damn you, you killed him with your own hands! You killed Big Daddy. Our mentor. My friend. My fishing buddy, as strange as that sounds. He was my friend, my family – he was more of a father than I thought I deserved, Harry! How many others, Harry? How many of our friends have you done away with in your pursuit of glory?

Was it worth it, Harry MacDowel?

I barely notice I do it, but a few seconds later I'm cradling his body to mine, knowing I pulled the trigger from the smile on his face. And then I'm crying, crying all over him because I promised I'd never do it, damn it, I know I promised I'd never kill Harry, but he deserved it, oh, God, how he deserved it. All the hatred runs back into my like a rush of blood to the head and I'm pounding in his face, shattering his visage, breaking his teeth with the only hand I have, letting his head hit the floor to get a better straddle over his waist, relishing in it every time I hear his skull crack back against the wood, and I hit him until I'm sure he looks more screwed up than any of them every did, more screwed up than I look with this crack across my face, more screwed up than Gary looked when they finished with him.

And then there's a deafening silence. When I finally notice what I've done, I've already stood up and loosened the tie around his neck. I don't want to apologize, because it's the last thing he'd want to hear from me, I'm sure. Besides, his eyes tell all the stories I need them to.

I close them and stand silently for a moment before continuing on with my work, trying to get his suit off with one hand. When it's done, I myself strip down and replace my coat, the one Tokioka gave me, with the white outfit that's been at the head of the empire for so many years. I forget the tie and undershirt, because I know I don't need to be precise with what I'm going to do.

I take the gun from his hand, give him a last look, and start for the door, only to be stopped by an all-too familiar face.

"Hey there, Big Guy." Bunji's smirking at me from the doorway, cigarette in his mouth, popping his guns in and out of his sleeves. I almost ask him to shoot and do me the favor I did Harry, then I remember the fight at Millennion, the fact that there's no way he's really there. Still, I appreciate that some form of him showed up for my last stand.

He struts to the bar and takes a drink from a glass that wasn't there before. "Y'know, if I didn't have so much respect for ya, I'd be pissed off," he chuckles. "Nah, it's cool, Big Guy, I unnerstand. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, and we're men, aren't we?" He takes another drink, looks once at Harry, then shrugs. "I know the story now, Brandon. We're all alright, alright? Even so," he says, and runs across the restaurant, hopping into the window frame with his back to me. "I'll be watchin', so make it good."

I nod and smile a little, because I can promise him that. Wordlessly I take Harry's gun from him, and without a bit of hesitation, I book it for the door. The sunlight hits me and I'm impressed that I knock out five of them before the mafioso know what's happening, but then everyone's firing at me, momentarily thinking I'm Harry MacDowel.

Two more go down before I hit the ground, because I've been parallel to it this whole time, and a call goes up:

"That's not Harry, it's Brandon Heat! Fire at will!"

The anti-necralizer shots hit me immediately, and I roll onto my back, watching the clouds and taking a few to the head before I feel my insides begin to scramble, the rebooted programming of sorts retiring into shutdown mode. They always said that before you die, your life flashes before your eyes, but it must be different for someone on their second, because I barely have enough time for one final thought as I notice where I'm dying: right outside the restaurant where it all started, right in the sights of ever-watchful God who makes no attempt to stop it, and that is this:

_It's just an ordinary blue sky._

_ -  
_

**Author's Note: **Here comes everyone's favorite cop-out. Ready? Ahem. This is my first Gungrave story, so don't say it sucks, because I have leeway for at least fifty stories before you can flame me. Or, not. I just thought the end of the series could have gone a different way, so I decided to write it out, love it or hate it. I thought it was decent. Thanks for reading, either way.


End file.
